


Cold

by Lunamcwerewolf



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Depression, Gen, Hospitalization, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, post 3b, post void!stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-04
Updated: 2017-04-04
Packaged: 2018-10-14 16:50:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10540551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lunamcwerewolf/pseuds/Lunamcwerewolf
Summary: Stiles didn’t remember leaving the house. He didn’t remember grabbing his coat or stepping outside into the mid-December air. Nor did he remember lying down in the snow. As far as he was concerned, one moment he was in bed and the next he was in the hospital.





	

           Stiles didn’t remember leaving the house. He didn’t remember grabbing his coat or stepping outside into the mid-December air. Nor did he remember lying down in the snow. As far as he was concerned, one moment he was in bed and the next he was in the hospital.

           “Hypothermia,” they said. “You could have died.” _Shame,_ he thought. As soon as he was awake, he was being interrogated by staff who insisted that the furious Sheriff wait his turn. They asked if he’d been drinking to which the answer was “ _no_ .” _Drugs? No. Was he sure? Yes. Was it a dare? No. Then why did he walk outside at two-clock in morning and fall asleep in the snow?_

           “I didn’t mean to,” he said, gaze fluttering down to avoid the accusatory looks he was sure to get.

           It was at this point the Sheriff decided he couldn’t stand by any longer. “What do you mean you _didn’t mean to_ ? How do you _accidentally_ do something like that? Tell me, Stiles, because I’d love to know.”

           He stayed quiet, knowing that his one and only answer wasn’t good enough.

           “Son,” one of the nurses said, stepping around the Sheriff to catch Stiles’s attention. “Did you do it on purpose?”

           “No,” he exclaimed, suddenly, violently defensive. “I don’t even remember doing it!” _Fuck. Oh, fuck_. He said too much. He wasn’t supposed to tell them that. He wasn’t supposed to give them a legitimate reason to worry.

           A heavy kind of silence fell over the room. “Sleep walking?” inquired the nurse. He shook his head without meaning to, perhaps too exhausted to lie, as much as it made him want to kick himself.

           Everyone in the room averted their gaze simultaneously, nothing more needed to be said. It was now clear that Stiles had gone completely, irreversibly, batshit crazy. Even if that wasn’t the term they’d put on his medical records.

           Thank God Deaton found a way to muddle the memories of everyone at the hospital at the time of the Nogitsune massacre or else they wouldn’t be treating Stiles at all. And maybe that was fair. Maybe he didn’t deserve it anyway. Still, he looked at their faces and felt a crushing guilt. Sure, it wasn’t his decision to hurt anybody that day, but he felt every swing of the sword, heard every scream and plea for mercy. He watched as the light drained from so many innocent people. In all respects, it _was_ Stiles. And as this thought settled into his mind, he found the world one again slipping away. Not the least bit eager to fight for his consciousness. It was easier this way. It was easier to just not be there at all.

           The next time he woke up, he was in a different room that was easily recognizable to him as being part of the psych ward, having visited his mother here many times in the past. Which meant the door and windows would be locked, someone would be in to check on him and force-feed him some cocktail of medication. Nothing unfamiliar, but at least it wasn’t Eichen House. He’d rather spend the rest of his life locked in this room than ever return there.

           After a few days, Scott came to visit. “I brought you some lunch, but they made me leave it at Check-in,” he said, hands in his pockets, eyes cast downward. Few people dared to actually look at him these days. Save for the doctors who were used to people like him. The _crazy ones_. No one said it, but no one had to.

           At some point, people stopped asking him _why,_ in favor of pretending nothing happened at all. They acted like they were visiting him at home with a broken leg and asked him things incessantly. How was he doing? What had he been up to? Read anything good lately?

           Eventually, he stopped accepting visitors. Scott didn’t need him to help recover from Allison. Hell, it was probably better if he didn’t see Stiles at all. Not that he would admit it. He didn’t have to.

           Fast forward a few weeks and Stiles was released as he no longer posed a “threat to himself or others” on top of all-around good behavior. By golly, he was shaping up to be a productive member of society again.

           The first thing he did after leaving the hospital was go home and sleep. This worried his father. In brief moments of consciousness, Stiles would hear him walk by _casually_ and pause at the foot of the door. Listening, he assumed. Making sure he was still there. Still breathing. This made Stiles angry in a way he couldn’t rationalize. The man had every reason to worry. Stiles was all he had left in the world. Still, every time he stopped behind the closed door, Stiles wanted more and more to shout at him to go away. This only adding further to his already crushing guilt.

           It was for this reason that he found it best if no one was made to deal with him at all. So he waited until his dad fell asleep, smiling every time he stopped to check in, reassuring him that he was “feeling a lot better.” And as soon as the house fell silent, Stiles shrugged on a coat and snuck out. He decided not to take the Jeep as it would cause too much noise, and anyway, he wanted to walk. _Screw the cold_.

           So he walked. And he did so until reaching the opposite side of town—well past midnight, and into the woods. He continued even after his hands and feet went numb, after his eyes started to burn, and his lips cracked from the cold air.

           This was as far as he planned. _Get to the woods. Get away_. He stopped upon reaching an unfamiliar place. No idea where he was, how it late was. None of that mattered. Not after what he’d done. All the people he’d hurt. Killed. Not after Allison. He hadn’t allowed himself to cry in front of anyone since returning to his own. Whenever thoughts overwhelmed him, he simply dug his nails into his palm. By this point, it was almost certain to leave scars. But whatever. He didn’t plan on seeing anyone again—it didn’t matter. Who would shake hands with a mass murderer?

           The words slipped from his mouth, appearing in a puff of visible breath. “Mass murderer.” And he broke, crumbling to his hands and knees with a violent sob. The ice on the ground dug into his already cracked skin, but he thought it appropriate. It was the least he could do in the way of repenting. _I deserve this_ , he told himself, putting more weight onto his hands until blood spilled out onto the stark white ground. _I deserve this_. He watched his fingers turn blue, the pain fade away until he felt nothing but cold. Bad. An indescribable, terminal kind of bad.

           Stiles brought his hands up to chest, holding them close to his heart, and laid down, curling in on himself. He had given up fighting. It was only fair this way. He’d read once that freezing to death was a lot like falling asleep. You just… fade away. Like drowning, except you don’t have to hold yourself down. Your body doesn’t force you to get up and run. _Like falling asleep._

           He laid there, staring up at the night sky, watching the distant stars twinkle until they all blended together. Until everything grew dark and the world faded away for the last time.

 

**…**

 

           “You didn’t have to—”

           “—my best friend.”

           “—don’t know how long—”

           Fragments. That’s all he caught. Bits and pieces of words that barely made sense on their own. He tried to open his eyes, but the light exacerbated what had to be the worst migraine of his life. And that was quite a feat. He screwed his eyes shut with a small groan.

           “Stiles!”

           He recognized the voice immediately. “Dad? I can’t see.”

           “That’s alright,” the Sheriff said, bolting across the room and running a hand over his son’s forehead. “Your eyes need time to adjust. You’ve been out for a while. We weren’t sure if—” He trailed off, pausing for a moment before smoothing back Stiles’s hair.

           Stiles was able to partially open one eye and see his father standing over him. He had a five o’clock shadow and wrinkled clothes. He wondered how long he’d been there. How long they’d both been there. Finally, he pried open his other eye and was greeted with a smile, albeit a sad one.

           “Hey, son.”

           A figure stepped out from behind him with the exact same expression, one Stiles imagined he’d be getting used to. “Scott.”

           “Hey, buddy.”

           “I don’t remember getting here.” It was posed as a question.

           The Sheriff’s expression sobered, though he tried to hide it. “That’s because you were unconscious. Scott found you. You were…” He took a deep breath. “— _minutes_ from dying. Stiles, why…” His voice took on a severity Stiles hadn’t heard since his mother’s death. “Why did you…”

           Scott laid a gentle hand on the Sheriff’s back as tears flooded both their eyes. Looking like he wanted to scream, the Sheriff added, “Don’t do it again.”

           “I won’t.”

           “Promise me. Promise me, Stiles. Because I _can’t_ lose you too. You’re all I’ve got, son.”

           Stiles wiped the tears from his eyes, only now realizing that his hands were bandaged. _What have I done?_ “I promise. I’m sorry, Dad.” He was swept up in a painful embrace, feeling Scott wrap his arms around the two men moments later. Sure, he had a long way to go—he might never be the same person he was before—but it was at this point that Stiles decided it was worth it.

**Author's Note:**

> If this fic triggered you in any way, please don't hesitate to use these resources:  
> National Suicide Prevention Hotline: 1-800-273-8255  
> (website: https://suicidepreventionlifeline.org/  
> lifeline chat: http://chat.suicidepreventionlifeline.org/GetHelp/LifelineChat.aspx)  
> Depression Hotline:1-630-482-9696  
> The Quiet Place Project: http://thequietplaceproject.com/


End file.
